


The Excellent Adventures of Channel 221 Evening News

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, TV News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Sherlock is Channel 221's top investigative reporter. John is his cameraman. Together, they <strike>fight crime.</strike> <strike>Investigate crime.</strike> Try to get on with their jobs and their not-quite-relationship in the face of psychotic madmen, mysterious construction crews, an outbreak of unexpected office romance, and their gossiping coworkers. (Otherwise known as the TV news AU that contains very little actual knowledge about what TV news is like, otherwise known as the fic (based on a show) about a show about news.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

> From a [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/)**sherlockbbc_fic** prompt.

“...and now we’re off for a short commercial break, but we’ll be right back, isn’t that right, Sally?”

“It certainly is, Anderson. Don’t go away, folks, we’ll be right back here on Channel 221 with all the evening news and then some.” 

“And out! Back from commercial in five!”

“Oi, Anderson! Donovan! Where the hell is Sherlock? Have either of you two seen him? He’s on in fifteen minutes!” The two anchors at the desk immediately drop their picture-perfect smiles, and the whole studio gives a collective silent groan. 

Greg Lestrade, producer and director of the highly acclaimed—no,  really— Channel 221 Evening News, gazes around in the resounding silence and lowers his head into his hands.

“No, don’t tell me,” he says, through his fingers. “No one can find him.” 

Sally Donovan and Anderson Smith exchange glances and shrug. 

“Who can tell where the freak is? He’ll turn up, Greg,” Sally says, placating. 

Molly speaks up, somewhat shyly. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back in time for his segment! He’s never missed a show before. I’ve told you about Sherlock, haven’t I, Jim? He’s ever so clever.”

“Wow! Maybe you could tell more, you know, over coffee?

"Oh, of course, Jim!"

"If you two lovebirds are quite done, maybe we could focus on the issue at hand?"

"Sorry, Greg." 

"Hey, what's the big deal about this Sherlock guy, anyway?"

Absolute silence reigns, every eye in the studio focused on a single hapless cameraman. 

John blinks. "Uh...I'm sorry. Was it something I said?"

Mike is the only one to speak. "Oh, mate, you're going to regret asking that." 

"Is he?"

Sherlock Holmes sweeps into the room. "Your name is John Watson. You're obviously new to the job, but not new to the industry. Recuperating after a debilitating injury and a long stay in the hospital. Nice to meet you, my name is Sherlock Holmes. Come see me after the show. Shut up, Anderson."

"But I wasn't--"

“I said shut up. Honestly, can your and Donovan's little act get any more insipid? It's all 'oh yes Anderson' and 'oh yes Sally.' You're practically  simpering . Work on that, will you? Oh, and Greg? I was investigating. You know, for the show. Incidentally, we should be coming back from commercial break in two minutes and forty-five seconds. Shouldn't you all have something you should be doing?"

::

John doesn't mind his job at all. In fact, he rather likes it. Being a cameraman is not at all bad. The people are mostly nice, the hours are at least regular, and it's fairly easy. It's not really what he would like to be doing, but at least it pays the bills. 

Harry helped him get the job. They always used to joke about how they both ended up in the TV biz, with Harry on one side of the camera and John on the other. Unfortunately that joke lost a bit of its humor when it turned out John wouldn’t be able to do anything other than studio work for quite a while. 

Harry got him the interview, but he's confident he got the job based on his own skill. 

Sometimes he wishes it were a tad bit more exciting. 

::

John finds Sherlock after the show, and gets his first real look at him. Sherlock’s standing around rather irritably, having his makeup removed by a motherly-looking old lady. 

"Um, wow," he thinks, hoping the blood rushing to his cheeks and...other places...isn't too obvious. Sherlock is tall. And thin. And has messy, curly hair. And—oh god—those cheekbones. It's like someone took all John’s buttons and lined them up and tap-danced on them. 

“Um. Hello?”

Sherlock turns, straightening his suit lapels and waving off the makeup lady. John is positive that he sees her wink at Sherlock before leaving.

“Hello.” Sherlock puts his hands in his pockets and subjects John to a cool stare, and John feels the compunction to say something.

“That stuff you said earlier—about me—how did you know?” 

Sherlock begins to walk, his long stride forcing John to hurry to keep up with him.

“Oh, that? Simple. Your ID tags says John Watson, so you’re Harriet Watson’s brother. You’re obviously new to the show, if you didn’t understand why the others were upset. But you know your way around the camera in a way that says technically skilled. Thus, not new to the business.” He walks across the studio in a way that proclaims that he is not going to yield to any mere mortal, so people and equipment and furniture had better get out of his way first.

“Furthermore, your ignorance of who I am indicates that you haven’t seen the show recently, or even any news or television. That says long absence in a place that receives little or no connection with the outside world. The tan lines around your wrists and neck indicate work, not vacation. So, either you were filming on a long assignment in a remote place, probably of desert or tropical climate. Probably a documentary, then. The injury part is obvious, as are the signs of stress. Your limp seems to trouble you erratically, and you are obviously irritated by it. Probably psychosomatic. You were, however, wounded in your left shoulder.” Sherlock smirks at John’s surprised expression and continues.

“It’s fully healed now, but you’re still not used to using it, suggesting that it was quite serious and you were required to avoid using it while it was treated. So a desert climate that is also a combat zone. That narrows it down to much of the Middle East and certain parts of Africa. I know of two projects in those areas from the last year—one in Sudan and one in Afghanistan. You’ve been in the hospital—you must have, with those injuries, but, hmmm, you could have caught up with the news in the hospital. You didn’t bother. That indicates a general lethargy and disinterest with normal life. Understandable, as you’ve been working on this project for at least a year, maybe two. People can get absorbed into their work. Your cheap clothes say you’ve fallen on hard times and have probably taken this job as a way of getting your feet back under you. There’s more, of course, but I’m rather in a hurry.”

He stops abruptly, and pivots.

“Our of curiosity, which one was it?”

John gapes. He opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head, and sighs.

“Afghanistan. But that’s—that’s absolutely amazing! I mean— wow. ”

For the first time, Sherlock seems to really  look at him. His eyes are penetrating, but John can’t say he finds the sensation completely unpleasant. 

“Is it, now,” he says slowly. “So. A cameraman used to documentary filmmaking in Afghanistan. You’ve seen violence. And you’re not some moron just out of college.” He claps his hands. “Fantastic! I can fire my current cameraman, finally! From now on, you’ll work for me. I do a lot of fieldwork, you should like that.” 

John feels himself smile. Well, what the hell. He  was looking for something more exciting.

“Yes, I expect I will...Sherlock.”


	2. Episode 1

_Episode 2_

“So, aren’t you glad I introduced you to Sherlock?”  


John looks at his sister, who’s sitting backward on her desk chair, leaning her head and arms on its back. 

“Harry, you didn’t introduce me to Sherlock. He introduced himself.”

“I set you up for this job, and because of that, Sherlock introduced himself to you.”

“And are never going to let me forget it, apparently.” 

“Got that right. You’re dodging the question, by the way.” 

“Piss  off , Harry. Don’t you have work to be doing?”

“Yep. But the tennis match I’m supposed to be covering isn’t done yet.”

“When did it start?”

“Fifteen hours ago.” 

“Shouldn’t you be covering it anyway?”

“That’s what I have interns for. But really, Sherlock...” she lowers her voice and looks around. “...the man is  luscious . I wouldn’t mind a piece of that, and this is coming from someone absolutely not attracted to the male form. Not gonna lie.”

Harry nods judiciously, apparently speaking in complete seriousness. John tilts his head, studying her.

“Yeah, okay. I have better stuff to do than listen to this.” He spots Sherlock in the main newsroom, and gets up, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder.

“Yeah, like trail around after your hot boyfriend.”

“Not my boyfriend, my boss. We’ve only known each other for a couple days.”

“That’s longer than any other cameraman of his has lasted, Johnny boy. Most of them don’t even make it through the first case. You  did ,” she points a pen at him. “and that serial murder story has been the top story ever since you two broke it!” 

“Go watch your tennis match, Harry.”

He walks out of her office, shaking his head, and falls into step with Sherlock. 

“Anything lined up for today?” 

Sherlock looks straight ahead. 

“John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work.”

“What—wait what?”  

“I overheard you and Harriet talking.”

“Oh. Oh god.” John rubs a hand over his face. “No. No, no, no, it’s not like that. Harry’s always liked to tease me...god, no. I’m not—you know. Uh.”

“I see. That’s...good to hear.” 

“I can’t believe I’m related to her.”

“Quite. Anyway, Greg has some people he wants me to  interview .” He says the word ‘interview’ with an incredible amount of loathing, and John raises his eyebrows.

“Isn’t that what you normally do?” 

“No, John. I don’t do people, I do stories. I don’t need to spend my time trying to find out what happened from some blubbering idiots when I can just as easily discover that on my own. We have a human interest reporter for  people . There’s been a rather peculiar break-in at a bank which I believe may lead somewhere interesting. We’ll go there instead.”

::

“Hello, and welcome to Channel 221 Evening News here at the top of the hour! I’m Anderson Smith—”

“—and I’m Sally Donovan. We’ve got a whole lot to cover here tonight, so stay tuned.”

“And out! Play intro music, roll graphics. Back in 20 seconds!”

Mrs. Hudson bustles through the room, deftly straightening a tie here and a cuff there, touching up makeup and making sure hair stays perfectly styled. 

“Sally, Anderson, you’re good until next commercial. Oh, Greg, dear, Mike says to tell you that none of the weather crew’s microphones are working.”

“Tell Mike to complain to the tech people—wait, what?”

“Yes. He says to say ‘I told you we should have got waterproof sound equipment.’”

Lestrade groans. “Tell him to take it up with the network, we don’t have a big enough budget to buy anything state-of-the-art. And get me a coffee, will you?”

“I’m not your housekeeper, Greg.” 

::

“Sherlock, I am really not sure your journalistic pass is an acceptable excuse to try an enter that man’s apartment through the balcony. In most circles, that’s known as breaking and entering.”

“Ridiculous, John, I was investigating. Did you get it all on film?”

“The apartment, yes, your balcony stunt, no. Because, as you might recall, I didn’t get let in until you finished rummaging.” 

“My apologies.” 

“You know, if you need someone to lock out of buildings, there’s always Anderson. Or the skull.”

“Don’t be petty, John, you are far superior to either Anderson or the skull.”

“Huh.”

::

Liking Sherlock is like a pleasant tingle hovering about his body—it’s not unpleasant and hardly painful. The man is attractive and his type, but John isn’t a bloody fool enough to pine over something he’ll never have. Detached, that’s the way to put it.

::

Lestrade sits down in a chair, briefly closing his eyes. When he opens them, the scene hasn’t changed. He’s still in the conference room, and the man sitting in front of him is still Mycroft Holmes.

“Listen, I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to have this meeting, Mr. Holmes—”

The man beams. “Please, call me Mycroft.”

Lestrade flounders for a second here, and forges onward. The man is a holy terror in a refined, Count Dracula sort of way. Lestrade’s positive he can feel his hair going grey for every minute he spends in these meetings, and he never gets any more money for the show out of it.

“—and I know you, uh, the network, that is, doesn’t want to waste money on this sort of thing, but it sounds like this tech problem is really quite serious. Half our microphones are shot, we had to borrow some from next door’s studio. Frankly, and with all due respect Mr. Hol—uh, Mycroft—I’m not paid to deal with this.”

Mycroft taps his umbrella on the floor thoughtfully, nods to his assistant, who’s standing in the corner, texting. She snaps her phone shut and leaves the conference room.

“Well, that sounds like a very serious problem. I’m sure something can be worked out.” 

Not really sure what to make of this remark— _“_ _ does it mean we’ll get the budget to replace anything, or not?”_ —Lestrade stays silent. Mycroft folds his hands on his lap.

“On a more personal note, how is my brother doing? I here he’s getting along quite nicely with his new cameraman.”

“How do you—oh, never mind. Yes, yes, he seems to be doing fine. His methods are a bit...” here he struggles for the right word, because on the one hand, this man pretty much is the network, on the other, Lestrade is a pretty honest guy, “...unorthodox,” he finishes lamely. “All his stories are real winners, though.”

“I thought so.” 

There is an awkward silence. Why, why is the man staring at him so? Lestrade shifts in his chair, aware that his face is growing red, and tries to look anywhere but at Mycroft. 

::

Sally Donovan backs hurriedly out of the room, banging the door behind her with a garbled “sorry, sorry, I’ll come back later, sorry,” and all but dashes to the newsroom, where she slams her hands down on the main desk, effectively attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

“You will never guess,” she says breathlessly, “what I just saw.” Without waiting for anyone to answer, she plunges on. “In—in the conference room. I  walked in on Greg and that bloke from the network, you know, freak’s brother. Walked in on them! They were making out! Practically eating each other’s face off! I think Greg had his hand up the other guy’s shirt!”

In the echoing silence—after a while, people working at 221 News learn to respond to shocking news with absolute silence, rather than yelling, because that would mean yelling rather a lot—Sherlock, looking incredibly smug, puts a hand out, palm-up and John grudgingly fishes a few coins out of his pocket, handing them over.

“Remind me never to bet against you.” 

“You should have known that already. Really, it’s obvious. Mycroft has always been a pigtail-puller. He seems to take it upon himself to tease the object of his affections. Really a very strange way of showing any attraction to people.”

Mrs. Hudson sidles over to Harry and says in a stage whisper “Guess it must run in the family, eh?” Both women collapse in giggles. 

Sherlock stares around at general bewilderment and sighs. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you actually  thought the network was withholding money? We’re one of the most highly-rated news shows in the nation, are you  daft ? Mycroft was just playing silly games, fooling around with Greg.” 

John shakes his head.

“Well, how was I supposed to know anything about your brother? I don’t even know him that well. Understanding one Holmes is hard enough, thanks.”

Harry squeals. 

“Oh, you two! You are so  married.”

Sherlock looks up, studying her.

“Hmm. That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice before...shape of the nose, height of the forehead...why, you’re not actually related to John! He must be adopted, that would explain it.”

John and Harry at the exactly same time, say, “Would explain what?” 

Sherlock flashes a smile. “How he escaped the apparent family psychosis.” 

There’s an uneasy silence. Harry sputters, and John gapes at Sherlock. Then he shuts his mouth.

“Wait a minute...Sherlock...are you...did you just make a joke?”

“Yes, why? I thought it was rather good, didn’t you?”


	3. Episode 3

“I can’t believe we were being played around by the network because that guy decided he wanted to seduce Greg!” Anderson hurls a pen across the newsroom, where it narrowly manages to avoid hitting a hapless intern.

Harry snorts. 

“Anderson, you’re just jealous because Greg is getting laid now and you’re no—ohhhhhh, Greg. Hi. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it.” Greg walks by the clump of of desks where they sit, and nods in response to Harry’s greeting. He’s smiling to himself, and walking with what can only be described as a spring in his step.

They all watch as he passes, and Harry sits back in her chair with a sigh of relief.

“That was deeply, deeply disturbing.” 

Anderson shakes his head in disbelief. 

“He was whistling!”

“And smiling .” Mike stares contemplatively into his coffee mug. “Well, mates, this might be the time for me to contemplate retirement. Sherlock cracking jokes and Greg being cheerful because he has a new boyfriend who is also the network owner. I’m not sure my nerves can stand the strain.” He holds up his mug. “Cheers.” 

Half a dozen people echo “cheers” and clink their drinks together.

“Well, I do think it’s good Greg has found someone. He always seems so stressed, it’ll be good for him to have something to be happy about.”

“You are the sweetest girl, Molly.”

At this point, Sally cuts in. She’s sitting at her computer with a pen between her teeth.

“Does anyone have another word for ‘catastrophe?’ My brain isn’t working today.”

“Can’t you just use ‘catastrophe?’”

“Are you stupid? Would I be asking if I could? I’ve already used it twice in this bit.” 

Mrs. Hudson bustles over and plumps herself down in a seat.

“Hello, dearies. Anything happening?”

“Sherlock’s turning into a normal human being, Greg’s getting laid, and Sally needs another word for ‘catastrophe.’”

Mrs. Hudson beams. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? I rather suspect it’s John’s influence. They make such a nice couple.”

“Wait, are you talking about Greg or Sherlock?”

“Which do you think?”

Sally groans. “So no one knows another word for catastrophe?”

Sherlock sails in, his coat billowing behind him. As always, he’s followed by John. 

“Cataclysm, calamity, disaster. All synonyms for catastrophe.”

“Thanks, freak,” Sally says amicably, hitting the backspace bar a couple times and beginning to type again. 

Sherlock passes by, diving into his office, while John stops to catch his breath, giving a nod to the assembled. Then he reemerges bearing an armful of books, texting furiously with one hand.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and runs out the door. John heaves a breath and follows him.

::

“You didn’t tell them.”

“No.” Sherlock strides along so quickly it’s hard for John to keep up. In a less dignified man, it would have been running. “There’s no need, and they wouldn’t have been able to help any. The first three were easy enough to solve. ”

“Hey—Sherlock, are you taking this seriously?”

Sherlock gives a frustrated huff. 

“Yes,  John , I am taking this seriously. It’s only because she started to describe him that he killed that old woman in the third one. These puzzles...they’re too easy. If this really is the man behind the serial murders and the Chinese smuggling operation, then he can do better than this.”

“Maybe you overestimated him.”

“I never do. These so-called challenges, they’re more like a taunt.”

John quells the impulse to roll his eyes. He doesn’t know why he puts up with this, he really doesn’t. He’s like a child, he really is. Attention span of a gnat unless something  interesting  comes along. In Sherlock’s world, there are two kinds of things. The boring things—which apparently encompass most of humanity, and the solar system as well, and and the things worth paying attention to, which is pretty much limited to peculiar and gruesome crimes.  

“Take the painting—I reported on a break-in at the same place two years ago. Yes, the painting’s a good example. Clever of him to leave a message in plain sight like that, where he knew I’d find it but I might not realize what it means.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Really, John, keep up. There was a piece of paper taped to the underside of the frame. On it was a series of numbers, in groups of three.” 

“The same code as—”

“As the smugglers used, yes.” Sherlock waves a scrap of paper a John. “Here, take this. Read off the numbers. The books probably isn’t London A-Z anymore, he’ll have changed it...” John takes the paper while Sherlock rips open one of the books he’s taken from the office. 

“10...5...75...14...”

::

“Slow news day.”

“Mmm.” 

Harry and Mike are playing an unenthusiastic game of basketball with a trash can and some wadded-up papers. Molly is updating her blog. Mrs. Hudson has fallen asleep in her chair. 

“Hi, everyone. Hi, Molly. I brought you a latte.”

“Oh, Jim, you’re so sweet, thank you! Don’t tell me you came up here on your lunch break again just to see me.”

Jim gives a chuckle. 

“What can I say, Moll? I guess I just like spending time with you. Though I had a time getting up here...there are construction people up and down the hallways everywhere. Are you getting some renovating done?”

“Oh, well, kind of. We’re finally getting a lot of our equipment replaced. I think they’re doing the lighting system today.”

“Wow, that sounds exciting! Is that why you’re all sitting around?”

“Well, yes and no. Yes, we have to be out from under their feet, but it’s a slow day. Not really much to do otherwise.”

“Sounds fascinating. Well, I’ve got to run! My boss’ll be angry if I’m back late.”

“Bye, Jim. Thanks for the coffee!”

Mrs. Hudson stirs.

“What a nice young man.”

::

“Yes...I’ve got it! It’s the pool where Carl Powers was killed. And the last bit isn’t part of the code, it’s a time. 12:00 PM. Noon.” Sherlock tosses aside the book. “Dull. Undoubtedly a trap, undoubtedly a show of brute force. No point. Dull. The place is probably full of explosives.” He pulls out his phone while John’s mind scrambles, frantically trying to change gears to keep up with Sherlock’s erratic reasoning. 

“Wh—so what are you doing now?”

“Texting Mycroft. He can deal with it. Or rather, he can get some of his lackeys to do it for him.” 

“Okay. That actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Occasionally I do “the sensible thing,” John.”

“Is this because I called you an idiot for trying to take the pill that cabbie offered you?”

“Of course not.” 

“It is, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“You’re sulking.”

“Am not.”

John takes pity on Sherlock. It’s not his fault the man gets even more adorable when he’s flustered.

“Whatever you say. I still don’t understand how even the owner of a TV network has enough money to hire his own secret service and bomb disposal squad.”

“Convenient, isn’t it?”

::

“Well done, little brother. I wouldn’t have expected you to do the responsible thing and call me.” Before Sherlock can respond, Mycroft presses on, smoothly. “Just as well that you did. There was a full team of snipers waiting for you in there.”

Sherlock scowls, curled up in a worn-out armchair in his cave of an office.

“Boring. Predictable. Not worth my time.”

“We didn’t get the man behind it, the one you call Moriarty.”

“He’s too smart for you.” 

Sherlock’s office really is horrifying, thinks Mycroft. He rather suspects that Sherlock is trying to assemble some kind of nefarious device, judging by the wires and mysterious pieces of circuitry and what looks like an dissembled hand grenade. And he’s almost certain that knife has bloodstains on it. 

Sherlock flings a heavy envelope at him.

“Here. The whole case, plus the list of sources, transcripts of interview, and all John’s footage. Give it to Donovan or Anderson—actually, not Anderson, someone at least halfway competent—and get them to put a piece together on it. It’ll give the police a Now go away.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft gives a somewhat sardonic smile. “I have a date, anyway. And I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Nothing at all.”

Sherlock scowls fiercely, and hides behind a newspaper, shaking out the pages rather loudly. He waits until Mycroft’s footsteps have died away before vaulting out of the chair, grabbing his coat, and rushing out the door. John does not see him leave.

::

John does not see him leave, because he has joined the rest of the reporters in standing around and alternately poking fun at and lamenting the stupidity of the construction crew currently tramping all over the studio. 

“I don’t understand, is that even how you install light? That’s weird.”

“How many reporters does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“None, because they hire someone else to do it for them.”

“One, but that’s not counting the cameramen and the studio crew and makeup and the lighting and sound crews.”

John’s phone rings, and he wrestles it out of his pocket. It’s a text.

Angelo’s. Immediately. Most urgent. SH

He sighs, not able to find it in himself to be annoyed. Which, as he reminds himself, is a sure sign of insanity. Of course.

“Sorry guys, I have to go. Sherlock’s got himself into something again.” 

“Yes, John. Go look after your boyfriend if it makes you happy.”

“Oh, shut up, Harry.”

::

John enters the restaurant and sees Sherlock immediately. For one thing, he’s one of the tallest people in there, even sitting down. 

John pulls out a chair and sits down across from Sherlock, who looks up from studying the menu.

“Oh, John. Just in time. Should I have the pasta caprese or the pasta primavera?”

John went through another one of his rapid mental gear changes. This time, however, he didn’t come up with anything remotely making sense, so he settled for the decidedly less eloquent “what?”

Sherlock looks at him like  John’s the weird one. That’s not fair, that really isn’t. 

“It’s a simple question, John. I am requesting your opinion on which pasta dish I should order.”

“How should I know? Just pick one.”

“Hmm. The pasta caprese, then. Here’s your menu. Have whatever you like.”

John accepts the menu, but is not deterred.

“Is this about Moriarty? Or have you found another story?”

Sherlock merely looks evasive and buries himself in the menu again.

::

“Ten minutes, everyone! And we need makeup in here, now!”

“Sorry, Greg dear. Just finishing my tea.”

“It’s fine—”

(“Did you hear that, he said it’s fine!” 

“Man, I could get used to Greg being in a good mood!”)

“—Donovan, are you all set with Sherlock’s story? It’ll all be on teleprompter, but you need to sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I went over it a couple times.”

“Right. Good. I don't know, I just have a bad feeling about this.” 

::

Their food arrives, and John’s still in the dark as to what in the world they’re doing here. It gets even more confusing when Sherlock actually starts eating his pasta, instead of just pushing it around on his plate and making loud, acid observations about their fellow diners. 

“I—thought you didn’t eat on an investigation.”

Sherlock neatly spears a piece of pasta with his fork. “I don’t.”

“Uh, right. Okay then.” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. Just enjoy the dinner, alright? I’m paying.” 

And then he smiles, which is most disconcerting, not least because it induces a kind of fuzzy tingling in John’s chest. He has to remind himself that this it ridiculous, because he’s not  infatuated with Sherlock, he’s...pleasantly attracted to him. It’s not, it’s not a thing. He’s rather surprised that Sherlock hasn’t noticed, especially since John can’t seen to stop remarking on Sherlock’s brilliance. But then, as John looks at Sherlock’s alarmingly adorable smile and thinks about the fact that he’s probably never payed for something legitimately in his life, maybe Sherlock has noticed. 

"Sherlock, is this a  date ?"

Sherlock’s smile drains from his face and he sets down his fork. The sound is oddly loud, considering the noisy restaurant.

(Oh, that was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it?)

Sherlock stares at him blankly, wiping his mouth with his napkin and laying it on his plate.

"I was under the impression you were...at least somewhat interested. Um. In me."

John opens his mouth, not at all sure what he's going to say, when Sherlock's phone rings. Not breaking eye contact with John, Sherlock fishes it out of his pocket and spares it a quick glance.  Then he pockets it again and stands up, his face completely impassive.

"That was Greg. I'm afraid it's urgent. Good night, John. Enjoy the dinner, please.”

::

It’s all fun and games until someone actually falls in love.

::

Sherlock strides out onto the street, walking without being entirely sure where he’s going. The text from Greg was actually something rather mundane; he’s really not entirely sure what it said, actually. 

Damn it all. 

A phone rings, and it’s not his phone, the ringtone is different. It must be the pink phone, he’d forgotten he’d had it in his pocket. He yanks it out, and stops dead. It’s not a picture this time, oh no. Instead, it’s a video feed that he recognizes all too easily.

“Hello, and welcome to Channel 221 Evening News. I’m Anderson Smith—”

“—and I’m Sally Donovan. Stay tuned, folks, because we’ve got the story of a lifetime tonight, brought to you by Channel 221’s very own Sherlock Holmes. But first, news at the top of the hour.”

::

Sherlock crashes through the doors of the newsroom, his coat flying behind him. 

“Where—!”

The scene he intrudes on is completely normal. He can see Anderson and Donovan in the studio through the glass wall of the newsroom, their actual words muted by the soundproof glass. Everyone else is simply lounging around as normal. 

“Oh! Sherlock! Where’s John, wasn’t he with you?” 

Sherlock ignores this, scanning the room. Who’s missing...? There’s Molly, and Mike, and Harriet, and Mrs. Hudson. There’s Greg. Who’s not present? What’s different? Wait—

“—the lighting system! It’s different, why is it different?”

“Well, because we got it replaced, didn’t you know?”

That’s when Donovan puts a hand to her earpiece with a surprised expression. She half turns, looking more than a little angry. Then all color drains from her face. Just visible behind her is the silhouette of a man in a suit. He is holding a gun, which is trained on Donovan. Anderson starts violently, nearly jumping away from her. 

Greg shoots out of his chair, bellowing at the tech crew.

“Get sound in here, now! I want to hear every word they’re saying!”

A harassed sound engineer pushes a few buttons with fumbling fingers, and sound comes through on the newsroom speakers. It’s the sound of Sally speaking, jerkily, gasping as if she’s trying not to panic.

“—a message for...Mr. Sherlock Holmes, delivered through...this bitch—I am the—the man called Moriarty—Jim Moriarty, actually—” Molly gives a little cry and leaps to her feet.

“No, no! That’s a lie!”

The man, standing in shadow, gives a sort of patronising half-bow and steps out into the light. 

“Jim! But—but how—”

“—and I’m...very disappointed in you, Sherlock” Donovan continues, helplessly, her eyes darting back and forth frantically as Moriarty presses the barrel of his gun to her head. “...for not...keeping our appointment...this afternoon. So...I’ve rigged this whole station with...explosives! No...puzzle this time, Sherlock. You can’t...use that...phenomenal...brain of yours...to get out of this. It’s been...fun, but I’ve better...things to do.”

Moriarty turns to go, then turns back. He mutters something into a small microphone in his hand, and Donovan touches her earpiece, continuing.

“Just...for fun, I’ll give you ten minutes...to try and figure out...where the bombs are...and how they’re detonated...that’s a fair chance, don’t...you think?”

With that, he sweeps out. The studio, is, as always in the face of shock, dead silent.

Sherlock stands motionless in the corner, his eyes half-closed, stone-faced.

“Cataclysm,” he murmurs. “Calamity, disaster. All synonyms for catastrophe.”


	4.  Episode 4

The newsroom erupts in noise, and for a good thirty seconds no one can hear anything over the clamor. Eventually Greg, who has been yelling himself hoarse, snatches his coffee much and smashes it against the wall, which catches everyone’s attention. He takes a deep breath.

”Shut _up,_ all of you! Have you _forgotten_  that we’re broadcasting live right now?!” Obviously not expecting any answer, he mutters a quick “thank god for soundproof glass” and leans over the mike that connects him to Anderson and Donovan’s earpieces. “Anderson? Sally? Can you hear me? You all right?” Both of them nod uncertainly, and Greg gives a sigh of relief. “Alright, guys. It’s your call. Transition us out, I don’t care how you do it.”

Anderson clears his throat, nervously. He gathers up his papers in a mechanical, habitual gesture and speaks.  


“It appears that a fairly serious situation has developed in our studio. Unfortunately, we will have to interrupt this program in order to deal with it. We ask all our viewers to remain calm and patient. Thank you.”  


“And out!” The tech crew launches into a mad scramble and Greg slumps in his chair briefly before sitting up straight again. “Alright, we need to evacuate the building. Everyone leave your stuff here and head for the stairs.”  


Sherlock cuts in, speaking for the first time.  


“We can’t. This building has thirty-two floors; we are on the twenty-eighth. Just the people working on this floor—there are one hundred fifty-two, by the way—would clog up the elevators even assuming, of course, that the other thirty-one floors haven’t yet get wind of our little predicament. But they probably have, and that would make a total of more than one thousand people rushing for the exits all at the same time. You can let them go if you want, but they won’t get out in time.”  


Someone gives a faint scream at this point, and the noise level shoots up. Greg and Sherlock, locked in a staring contest, give no notice except to raise their voices.  


“What do you propose to do, then? Just stay here and wait to be blown up?”  


“I never said that.”  


“What, then?”  


Sherlock sighs.  


“First, call Mycroft. Second, work on finding those explosives.”  


::  


John fancies that he’s running faster than he’s ever run before in his life, even taken into account that he’s dodging pedestrians and trying to not be run over by cars. It feels like it, anyway.  


This was not supposed to happen. Sherlock was supposed to catch Moriarty, not the other way around. Sherlock was supposed to be too clever to fall for _obvious_  traps.  


_“Well, maybe he had something else on his mind at the time,”_  his brain supplies, treacherously. At this point, he stops trying to think and just concentrates on running.  


::  


“They’re in the lighting grid, they must be in the lighting grid. He really had the perfect time for it, with workman tramping in and out all day, no one would think to question it—” Sherlock strides across the studio floor, his coat flapping behind him, and dashes for the access ladder. He clambers up in long bounds, all arms and legs and makes for one of the fixtures.   


_“Yes”_ he breathes, long fingers brushing over the plastic explosives neatly fit between among the fittings and and wires. “The insulating is too thin, and when it burns through...” He checks his watch, and takes a deep breath. “Of course, of course. He thinks I’m like him...he thinks I’m too like him, and he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. Doesn’t he understand what I do all day?” He rolls up his sleeves and reaches for the wires.  


::  


John crashes into the lobby, fighting against the stream of panicked people running out of the building. He muscles his way past frantically fleeing people, and collides with a body moving much slower than the others.   


“Sorry—” he automatically steps back, grabbing the other person’s shoulders and pushing them away.   


“Well! Well well well well _well_. This _is_ unexpected.” The young man standing in front of him bounces on the balls of his feet and grins. John blinks.

“Wait—aren’t you—Molly’s—Jim, right?”  


“Oh, yes. I’m Jim. Jim Moriarty.” He grins at John’s flabbergasted expression. “Yes, a bit startling, isn’t it, Johnny-boy? But I suppose you couldn’t have been expected to work it out. After all, your precious Sherlock didn’t even guess. Oh—did that hit a nerve?” Jim— _Moriarty_ —hums happily. “Though I _was_  surprised not to see you trailing after Sherlock as usual. Lovers’ spat?”  


Suddenly, John wants to punch him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. Moriarty grins like he’s expecting this, and the grin is nasty. It shows all his teeth, and malice from his eyes is seeping into it like poison.   


“Are you going to try and attack me, Johnny? Try and kill me? If you’re fast enough you might even get out alive. Do that if you want—I don’t care.” He spreads his arms expansively as if in invitation. “But you know if you saw the broadcast that Sherlock and friends only have five minutes left. They can’t get out. They’re not even trying. Are you going to kill me and live while everyone around you dies...or are you going to run to Sherlock like the loyal little pet you are?”  


To his surprise, John finds himself laughing—chuckling, really. Quietly, to himself.   


“That’s—that’s quite pathetic. Did you expect me to actually fall for that?”   


Moriarty’s smile drops from his face, turning it stone cold in a second. He flings his arm up, and points a gun at John. They’re all alone in the lobby by now, and the click of the safety being released echoes more loudly than it ought. John just shakes his head and—  


—ducks down low  


lunges at Moriarty  


connects, uses the momentum to bear him down  


put weight on the gun arm, keep it pointed away—  


Coming to the studio without backup was the last mistake Moriarty ever made.     


::  


When John walks back into the newsroom two weeks later, practically the whole studio has turned out to welcome him back. Harry descends on him with a shout, throwing her arms around him and nearly knocking him over. She pulls back with a grin.

“Here’s the conquering hero, returned triumphant!” She pulls back and gives him a huge grin, and he shakes his head, but obviously can’t help grinning back.  


“Stop that nonsense,” he says mock-sternly, “or I’ll hit you and it’ll be your fault if I hurt my collarbone again.”  


She ruffles his hair.   


“Welcome back, little bro.”   


Greg and Mrs. Hudson are next, Greg giving him a hearty handshake and an uncharacteristic smile. (John will never get used to it, even if it has become a less-than-rare occurrence ever since Mycroft and Greg...yeah, never getting used to it.) Mrs. Hudson gives him a hug and murmurs that _Molly, poor dear, has just gotten back as well and to not say anything, alright? She’s suffered a horrible shock._  


Anderson shuffles up and claps John on the shoulder.  


“Be glad you missed it,” he says. “Those two—” this is accompanied by a jerk of the head at Harry and Mike “—have been making references to every movie with a bomb scare in it since 1955. It’s been horrible.”  


“And freak’s been utterly unbearable,” says Sally cheerfully. “It’s good you’re back, John, you’re the only one who can keep him in line.”   


Anderson snorts. “When he wasn’t sulking over the fact that he only got to disarm three of the bombs personally, he was pacing back and forth in a fit and biting the head off anyone who came near him. And when he wasn’t doing either of those, he was at the hospital. You must have seen a lot of him.”   


“What—? But he never—”  


“Have you ever considered that my so-called sulk is simply a reaction to being around your stunningly inferior intellect, Anderson?”  


“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”  


“Hallo, freak.”    


_“Sherlock,”_ thinks John, and turns around, and sees him, and it’s really all he can think about. _“Sherlock.”_  


::  


Sherlock’s actions in the past two weeks had gone something like this:  


He waited—barely—until the doctor was done explaining John’s injuries—a cracked collarbone and a twisted ankle plus assorted bruises were not usually the injuries expected on someone facing a man with a gun, apparently. And he waited a little more while Mycroft called in someone to deal with Moriarty. Then, having had enough of waiting, he proceeded to yell at Mycroft for ten straight minutes. Which was weird, because usually Sherlock doesn’t do yelling. He doesn’t see the need, because usually he can reduce people to incoherence with a few neatly-placed verbal barbs. But Mycroft is not most people and Sherlock was beyond caring about losing his composure.   


Mycroft, typically, did not yell back. He was very calm and logical and coldly disapproving until Sherlock wanted to throttle him, dammit. So Sherlock retreated to pace outside the door of John’s hospital room until the doctors shooed him away. Then he went back to the studio and shut himself in his office and poked and prodded at the remains of one of Moriarty’s bombs until Mycroft’s bomb disposal squad came and took it away from him. So he picked up his violin and took a savage pleasure in making it screech like every alarm ever made, with a tad of yowling cat. This went on incessantly until one of the more intrepid policeman turned him out as well.  


And that pretty much set the pattern for the following days: trawl the Internet and generally berate his other sources to exhaustion in the hope of another story, give that up in a fit of rage, go to the hospital, find he’s too nervous, or jittery, or _utterly and completely insane_ and can’t bring himself to actually enter John’s hospital room, pace outside the door, give that up in a fit of rage. Rinse, repeat.   


By the time John returns, Sherlock feels more utterly exhausted than he’s ever been. The sensation is not a pleasant one. In fact, it is deeply, deeply disturbing.   


::  


“Hello, John.”   


“Uh. Hi. Sherlock.”   


They stand there, staring at each other. Sherlock blinks, ever so slowly.   


“You’re looking better.”  


“Um, thanks. You—you too. Actually, not really. You look awful, to be honest.”  


The tension in the room ratchets up another notch, and the people standing around begin to feel uncomfortable. Sherlock and John do not break eye contact; Sherlock a foreboding and not a little sinister figure in his long coat, with circles beneath his eyes; and John with a mulish set to his jaw and his hands clasped behind his back.   


Sherlock blinks again.  


“Yes, well.”  


And they continue to stare at each other until the silence grows unbearable.  


Mike raises his eyebrows.   


“Do you two want to, you know, get a room? This is a tad uncomfortable for the rest of us, you know.”  


Sherlock turns, mumbling something like “oh right,” and heads off toward his office, his coat flapping behind him. John follows him after a minute.   


“Do...you think they even understood that was supposed to be joke?”  


“I’m...not sure.”   


::  


When John gets to Sherlock’s office, Sherlock is standing in front of the window looking down at the street below. He has his back to John, and doesn’t acknowledge him immediately. John shuts the door behind him and goes to lean against the desk, waiting.  


“Mycroft tells me you tackled Moriarty.”  


John clears his throat.  


“Uh—yeah. I did. It seemed like the best idea at the time. I actually ran smack into him in the lobby downstairs. He must have been leaving after that announcement on air.”  


“There was nobody with him?”  


Sherlock is still staring out the window, determinedly _not_  looking at John.  


“No. I kind of wonder why,” John adds in an offhand way. Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise. Since he doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate on Moriarty’s tendency to wander around unguarded just in time to be captured by convenient cameramen, John tries another tack. They’re both dancing around the subject, he knows, but this can’t go on indefinitely.   


“You didn’t guess what Moriarty was planning, did you? I mean, that he was going to attack the station.”  


“I was distracted.”  


“Really.” John lets the tone of his voice conveyed that he is _not_  convinced.  


“I was distracted,” repeats Sherlock. “You were distracting me.” 

Well. Maybe Sherlock isn’t as eager to avoid the subject as he’d thought.  


“Was I?”  


Sherlock turns from the window and begins to pace.  


“Yes, John, you were.” His words are short and clipped, like he’s afraid to say too much. John sighs.  


“Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me.” When Sherlock turns, John takes a breath and plunges on. “I was—am interested. In you. In a relationship with you, that is. I mean, if you want to. It seems like you do.”  


_”That sounded kind of stupid,”_  he thinks, but then Sherlock’s kissing him, so that’s okay.  


Unfortunately, both of them—even Sherlock—have to breathe, so John reluctantly pulls back. Sherlock is looking at him with his eyes all lit up and filled with animation, which causes a little twinge in John’s chest, and he finds himself smiling like an idiot.   


“John, I have the most marvelous idea!”  


“Oh, yeah?”  


“You should move in with me!”  


“What about me distracting you? I don’t want another bomb threat because you weren’t paying enough attention.”  


Sherlock waves a dismissive hand.  


“I can multitask. John, you worry too much. So what do you think?”  


John laughs.   


“I can think of a better idea.”  


“Oh?”  


“How about you lock the door? I’m not sure I want anyone to interrupt us the way they interrupted Greg and Mycroft.”   


“And what will we be doing to disturb them so?”  


“Oh, I’m sure we can think of something.”  


Sherlock grins, wild and joyful, and goes to close the door. John leans against Sherlock’s desk and reflects upon the fact that he has the best job ever. That and—this thought makes him smile—the best boyfriend ever.   


(If someone told him six months ago he’d be thinking that about Sherlock, he’d have thought they were crazy. If someone told him that six _days_  ago, he’d have thought they were clinically insane. In fact, he kind of thinks that he is clinically insane for thinking it. But that’s okay.)  


::  


“Hello, and welcome to Channel 221 Evening News, here at the top of the hour. I’m Sally Donovan—“   


“—and I’m Anderson Smith. We’ve got a lot to cover tonight, folks, starting with the News Corp scandal and more updates on the US debt ceiling debate, and working our way downwards. But first of all we’d like to send a big thank you out to everyone for their continued support over these past couple weeks.”  


“Yes, indeed, Anderson. Everyone, from the tech teams here in the studio to our faithful viewers has been a great help in ensuring the show continues as normal. To everyone who helped us: we greatly appreciate it. Now, on to what you’ve come here to see—news...”  


Sometimes, the real story isn’t the news. Sometimes the real story is the people behind the news.  


::  


_ Fin. _


End file.
